


Home At Last

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Complicated Relationships, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Reconciliation, Sappy, Sibling Incest, Unofficial Sequel, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 17:10:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19381108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock decides to return to Mycroft after nine months of separation. At first, his brother's reaction is not what he expected.





	Home At Last

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snoozydog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The winding road of secrets and lies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18847807) by [Snoozydog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog). 



> This is my wishful sequel to Snoozydog's fantastic story "The winding road of secrets and lies". In this story the Holmes brothers do have a very difficult relationship and it also contains a Johnlock arc but damn, read it! This humble little fic won't make any sense if you haven't read it first and it contains heavy spoilers for her fic! 
> 
> Thank you, you greatly talented writer, for letting me write on your thrilling story! I had planned to do it just for myself but there you have it :) And thank you for your story (and the great prequel); it is one of the fics I will read again and again!

Sherlock took a deep breath and stepped onto the street, directly facing a CCTV camera. He stood still for a moment and then he turned to walk on.

How long would it take his brother? Was an eager employee already running to his office to give him the news? Was Mycroft jumping up from his chair now, his heart hammering, his hand balled into a fist at the sheer excitement and relief? Or was he just burying his face in his hands in gratitude? Or warming up his belt for giving him a hiding… Would he be meek and sorry when they met? Exploding in wrath about him having disappeared for so long? Or passionate and hungry for sex? A mixture of it all? Sherlock really couldn’t anticipate his reaction.

Slowly he walked down the familiar street of his city, the city he hadn't seen for more than nine months.

In the end, he had missed it too much. And he had missed his brother more and more with every passing week.

Here lay the opportunity to work for Scotland Yard. DI Lestrade had not left any doubt that he would welcome him, no matter what his colleagues might say. And of course here also were the chains waiting for him. Would Mycroft yell at him? Hit him even before fucking him into the mattress?

Sherlock knew he could take it, could take anything, and would not crumble and cry again (even though he was quite certain that Mycroft wouldn’t lose control like this a second time). He had become another man over the past months, as clichéd as it sounded. He wasn’t that weak creature anymore. He didn’t crave drugs. He didn’t think he would take the next best chance to try Mycroft's resistance again. Like he'd done with John.

The more time had passed the less he had understood why he had been drawn to the small, common-looking man like this, who had claimed to admire Sherlock, to like him with all his flaws. It had been a novelty. John had been so simple in his admiration, someone easy to be around for a change, and perhaps Sherlock had needed that at this point. But John had done nothing but lie to him. Or rather had kept him in the dark about his true intentions, and they had been far from being good. He had worked for Moriarty. He had used Sherlock to get to Mycroft, to get something from him Moriarty wanted, and it hadn't been Sherlock. Sherlock had just been the icing on the cake for Moriarty, and he had been a means to an end for John. He hadn't known that when he had allowed John to kiss him in Mycroft's house, but he _had_ known that John's pretences had been false, and it had been, either way, a horribly treacherous thing to do, not only in his brother's eyes. He had done it more to punish Mycroft for his overbearing, asphyxiating behaviour than because he had wanted to get close to this man he'd known nearly nothing about. And in the house he had been brought to, he had let himself go with John once more, weakened by the nasty breakup with his brother and the lack of food, the confrontation with Moriarty and his desperate plan to escape, knowing he would leave it all behind, indulging himself by kissing another man, enjoying the difference.

It all seemed like a bad dream now. He had no intention to ever see him again, and he knew that even if they met, he wouldn’t make the same mistake again. John Watson was history for him.

Mycroft had been wrong to be violent against him but Sherlock understood better now why he had probably had to react like this. He had needed the break, the separation from his brother to come to terms with this and so many other things, and now he was ready to talk about it and to accept his brother's apology if Mycroft felt so inclined – and offer his own, and then they could start over new, couldn’t they? He had seen the scene of his return in his mind's eye many times before now, pondering if Mycroft would be sitting on the backseat of the car or waiting for him to be brought home to him.

But nobody came. No black car approached him. No agents came running to him, getting hold of him before he could disappear again. No Mycroft was anywhere to be seen.

Had he given up on him? Had he… found someone else? At this so far unjustified fear, Sherlock cringed and he felt a sentiment he had not known so far, but one Mycroft could probably tell him everything about. He was jealous.

He could live on his own, without a problem. He wouldn’t turn to the drugs again. He didn’t need Mycroft to stay sober and get his life done right.

But he wanted him back. With new rules, better communication and more respect. Mutual respect, because he was the first to admit now that he had shown none to his brother. He had demanded it from him, demanded fairness and reason, but he had not given anything of this to his brother. He had provoked him, insulted him, fought him beyond any reason and without even trying to consider the possibility that Mycroft might not be entirely wrong about him being in danger. When he had stepped away from him, searching closeness to another man, he had ended in captivity and the man who had pretended to be interested in him had turned out to be a criminal of sorts.

In the end he got a cab to stop and told the driver to bring him to Mycroft's address. It was four pm so his brother would be in the office, but Sherlock would somehow get into the house and wait for him. If he would come home at all. Perhaps he would spend the evening and night with someone else.

Sherlock didn’t like this thought one bit.

*****

The door wasn't locked. Sherlock had seen that the alarm was off and had tried to enter, and the door just opened up.

Mycroft was at home.

He entered the house and listened. Nothing. No housekeeper making any noise. No sign of life at all. But the house wasn't empty. He could feel his brother's presence.

He slowly crossed the corridor and looked into the rooms he passed by. They were all empty. And then he reached the small living room, small compared to the large version of it.

And there he was, sitting in his armchair, a book on his thighs. He looked up when Sherlock entered, and the younger man tensed.

Mycroft looked bad. His hair had thinned severely since he had last seen him, and he was wearing it very short. He had lost weight. Heftily. The suit he was wearing was new, perfectly fitting his much slimmer frame, and it was at least two sizes smaller than his old ones. Mycroft had dark shadows under his eyes, and his complexion was paler than ever. He looked way older than his thirty-six years.

He said nothing but stared at Sherlock, his eyes unreadable. There was no wrath in them, so much was sure. There seemed to be relief and sadness and a lot more Sherlock couldn’t quite identify.

“Hello, Mycroft,” he finally broke the silence.

“Hello, Sherlock,” came the rather flat reply.

“Um… Did you get my postcard?”

Mycroft nodded. “I did. Thank you.”

Sherlock swallowed. He had expected a variety of reactions from his brother but he had certainly not expected this resigned calmness. Was it resignation? Had Mycroft simply accepted that Sherlock would never come back? Had his obsession with Sherlock vanished along with any feeling for him at all? And one thing was clear – Mycroft had not found anyone else. He looked way too unhappy for that.

“Are you hungry?” Mycroft asked, sounding mildly interested, setting his book aside. Sherlock fleetingly noticed its topic was the British constitution. He would have thought Mycroft either knew this subject inside out or didn’t bother at all about it…

“A bit,” Sherlock said truthfully.

Mycroft nodded and finally got up. “I'll make you a sandwich.”

“Your housekeeper…?”

“She only comes twice a week now. The rest of the time I manage on my own.”

Mycroft clearly didn’t have anyone cooking for him anymore. When he walked by, without even trying to touch Sherlock, the younger man could see how much weight he had lost. Mycroft probably didn’t weigh much more than he did now.

“Sit down, Sherlock. I'll be back in a few minutes.” And with this, Mycroft was gone and Sherlock let himself drop onto the black leather couch, feeling confused and disturbed and unsure what was going on here.

*****

“Here you go,” Mycroft said quietly and handed him the plate before sitting down in his armchair once more.

Sherlock had pondered about his behaviour in the meantime but had not come to any conclusion. Mycroft, calculable, well-known Mycroft, had turned into a mystery. “So… Were you here when you were told the camera filmed me?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. But I didn’t have anything urgent to do so I let the driver bring me home in case you were headed here. I'll probably return to the office later.” He sounded totally indifferent.

Sherlock's left eyelid started twitching. Didn’t Mycroft care at all that he was at home? Why had he not asked if Sherlock had taken drugs again? Why had he not said anything about his disappearance? Was it a game? Or had Mycroft really given him up? Feeling tremendously disturbed that he couldn’t say, Sherlock stuffed half of the sandwich into his mouth.

“Your new life is becoming you,” Mycroft stated now.

Sherlock swallowed down the food. “I… worked as a consulting detective. For various countries.”

“Interesting,” Mycroft nodded. “And now you're planning to do that for Scotland Yard?”

“Yes. I met one of their inspectors already, solved a case for him in Belgium.”

“That’s good. They can certainly do with some help from someone as smart as you.”

“Mycroft! Do it already!” Sherlock burst out.

An eyebrow was raised. “Do what?”

“Yell at me for running away! Tell me you'll never lose sight of me again!”

“Is that what you want? Being locked up again?”

“No! I don't! But… don't you want me back?” Sherlock sounded like a whiney child to his own ears.

“You can always move in with me again,” Mycroft said, sounding untouched. “Your room is ready. And since you've coped so well on your own the past months, you can of course come and go as you wish. Well…,” he got up, “I guess I'll go back to Whitehall now. The fridge is filled if you need anything and you know where everything else is.” He gave him a polite nod and started to walk off.

“No! You can't just _leave_!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mycroft… I'm sorry. Sorry for everything…”

Finally Mycroft's mask of indifference softened a bit. “I'm sorry too, Sherlock. What I did to you on this last night was unforgivable. And before… I overreacted. Again and again. Be assured it's not going to happen again. It's probably best if we keep our relationship entirely brotherly now and…”

“No!” Sherlock yelled once more and finally he closed the distance between them. “I don't want that. Please…” He closed his eyes when Mycroft raised his hand to gently stroke over his hair.

“My dear boy, don't you see we drove each other insane? You look so much better now that you were without me for so long. It's only reasonable to not go down that path of madness again.”

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Mycroft…” Sherlock whispered. He was considering the possibility that he was being manipulated but he really didn’t think it was the case. Mycroft's shields seemed to have vanished along with his feverish obsession for him. He looked completely genuine. And the sadness in his eyes was doing things to Sherlock that no yelling and no violence could have done.

“Oh Sherlock. In no time you will be tired of me again and search for more interesting company, like you've always done. I bet John Watson can't wait to see you again and you can see him anytime of course…”

“I don't want to! He can go to hell as far as I'm concerned! He was part of the…” Sherlock broke off.

“…the kidnapping?” Mycroft finished his sentence in that disturbing soft voice. “I figured it had been the case. This house that he was found in. It was too much of a coincidence to be true. The universe is rarely so lazy.”

“But you didn’t do anything to him?” He didn’t know why he was so sure about that.

Mycroft shook his head. “No. You had clearly escaped and his silly lies of not having seen you became more and more desperate when he realised you'd stood him up, too. He is of no concern to me anymore. And I don't believe you want me to take measures against him?”

“No,” Sherlock mumbled. “I just don't need to ever hear his name again.”

“Consider it done,” Mycroft said dryly. “Well, I'm sure you're going to meet many interesting people when you seriously work with the police. One of them might…”

“I don't want anyone else. It's always been you, all my bloody life! You were there!”

Mycroft gave him a sad smile, and he suddenly looked even older than before. “And you always wanted to break free, and I forced you to stay with me. It won't happen again.”

“No, because it will be all different now. Your house won't be a prison anymore and you won't be my guard!”

“Is that all I've ever been? The prison guard?”

“No. But that was what had been overshadowing it all in the end. But now – we have the chance to make a new start. I'm sober and I'll stay sober. And you're willing to let me go and not be so… overbearing again so there's no need for me to rebel against you.”

“You think it's going to be so easy?”

“Nothing between us has ever been easy. But it has always been worth the effort. Don't you think?” And he knew how that sounded out of his mouth, but he had come a long way in the past nine months.

And finally Mycroft smiled at him. “Yes. I do think so.” And then he bent forward and pulled Sherlock close, and their mouths met in a kiss more tender and caring than any other kiss between them had ever been since the very beginning of their unusual relationship.

Sherlock's hand crawled up on Mycroft's body. He had expected feeling loose skin around his waist, but instead he felt plain muscles.

“You've been working out?” he mumbled, disbelievingly.

Mycroft patted his back. “I've got myself a punch bag to, you know, channel my energies.”

The image of his sport-hating brother bashing a punch bag was alien to Sherlock but Mycroft's appearance was speaking for itself. “I see. Does it bear my picture or John's?”

Mycroft chuckled, and when had he heard that noise the last time? “I thought you don't want him to be mentioned anymore? And there's no picture on it.”

But Sherlock was sure he had imagined someone when he had been pounding away at the training tool, and he hoped it had been indeed John, not him.

“I have to tell you about the kidnapping, Mycroft. I know who was behind it. They wanted to get to you through taking me.”

“Of course they did. We'll talk about it. But we don't have to do it now, don't we?”

Sherlock felt his knees get wobbly from relief. Even after the kiss he hadn't been sure Mycroft would give in. “No. Not right now.”

*****

Without them talking about it, Sherlock knew there would be no slapping, no strong domination, no toughness to their play. After the real violence that Mycroft had lashed out on him, Sherlock wondered if they would ever do this again. But knowing himself, he would probably crave for it soon enough, and he knew that Mycroft was deeply sorry for his actions and he could still trust him.

And he had come far enough to know that Mycroft had been the only one he had ever really trusted. Whenever Mycroft had been cold and suppressive, it had been an answer to Sherlock's actions, not born out of caprice. They were both responsible for the downwards-spiral they had found themselves in in the end, not just Mycroft.

Beneath all domination and jealousy, justified or not, beneath seeing Sherlock as his property, Mycroft had been driven by the wish to protect Sherlock, and yes, to keep him for himself. But there was probably no man on earth who did not hate to see the one he loved with someone else. And Victor had not exactly been better for Sherlock than Mycroft, not even mentioning John.

So when they had undressed next to each other, the fell onto the bed in one pile with Sherlock on top of his brother, their kisses less tender and more heated now, their hands pawing at each other's exposed skin, and now that the sadness had disappeared from Mycroft's features, he looked as handsome as Sherlock hadn't seen him for a long time, and with Mycroft's now even stronger arms wrapped around him, Sherlock felt like being at home, and he had no intention to leave again. For the first time Mycroft's house really felt like a home.

He still had to face the fact that Moriarty was still out there, that the threat of being attacked by him again was not gone at all, but he was very sure that as soon as Mycroft knew who had been responsible for taking Sherlock, he would destroy the crime lord and everybody around him, and Sherlock would feel no pity for him whatsoever. He did hope that John wasn't associated with Moriarty anymore, but if he really still was after what had happened with Sherlock, well, he obviously didn’t deserve any better treatment than the one Moriarty and his other chums would get…

And then Sherlock finally shook off any thought of John and let himself fall into pleasure and, finally, love.

*****

 _He's here, he's really here…_ It was so hard to wrap his mind around this fact. He had thought he had lost Sherlock forever. After not getting any trace of him, he had feared he was dead for months. It had eaten him up. The guilt, the shame, the grief. He would have gone completely mad if there hadn't been a tiny hope left that Sherlock was actually alive and would one day return to him. But he had suffered. He hadn't eaten for days on end, and when he had forced himself to do that, to function, to go on, he had slowly started to feel completely restless. He had started running, he, Mycroft Holmes, the biggest despiser of exercise! And then he had got the punch bag, and he had hammered against it until he had almost dropped with exhaustion. He had known there were only two possibilities: he could give up and drown in his loss and self-loathing, or he could force himself to maintain his façade, maintain his position – and the sharks had already started swimming around him, sensing his weakness and distress - and maintain the hope that one day Sherlock would return.

So he had tried to exercise his grief and frustration away, and also his obsession and greed.

He had made a vow to himself: if Sherlock ever came back, he would treat him differently. Without his awful behaviour, especially in this last night but also before, Sherlock would have never fallen for the likes of John Watson. He was to blame for his disappearance the most, and he had indeed seen John when he had been punching away but he had also seen his own failures.

And then the postcard had arrived, and he had almost fallen down on his knees in relief. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock had, after all, let him know he was alive! He had hinted at the possibility that he would come back!

And if he did, Mycroft would embrace it, embrace him. And he would set him free. Their relationship had been like poison for both of them in the end, and he couldn’t do that to Sherlock or himself any longer. He had been willing to give up any hope for a sexual and, dare he think it, romantic relationship if Sherlock only stayed in his reach, would still talk to him and they could finally be on better and less poisonous terms.

He had been serious when he had said to Sherlock that it would be for the better if they lived like brothers and nothing else. Any reasonable person must think so after all that had happened. But reason and responsible decisions aside, he couldn't have done anything but desperately hope Sherlock would protest, and he had suppressed showing his relief when his brother had. He didn’t want to give anything up. Anything but the bad side effects.

But he knew his jealousy and will to control Sherlock would never fully disappear. Any new man who turned up in Sherlock's life, and they would if he started helping the police, would make him fear for losing him again. He would torture himself with jealousy, especially as it had been so justified with John Watson.

But he wouldn’t show it. He would swallow it down. Because he knew he would break for good if he lost Sherlock completely again after they had started having this again – Sherlock, clinging to him, mewling quietly when Mycroft nibbled at his neck, his hands sliding over his back and neck, his beautiful body wiggling beneath him in high arousal.

And Mycroft began to map every inch of the familiar body with his lips and tongue and fingers, discovering new scars (and yes, it hurt to not know how Sherlock had got them, to have not been there through all the experiences he had made far away from him), caressing him from his pretty face to his crotch, in the end his mouth engulfing Sherlock's hard penis with his lips, eagerly sucking him, and Sherlock showed nothing but excitement and trust, and Mycroft knew that was a lot more than he deserved. Sherlock had been nasty to him for a long time, had provoked him in any possible way and finally run away – but Mycroft had actually thrown him out in his rage and pain, and he had hurt him in a way that he would never forgive himself for and made his life nothing but miserable for months on end beforehand.

It was a miracle that Sherlock had come back, and Mycroft would do all he could to not make the same mistakes again.

He closed his eyes when Sherlock bucked up and ejaculated down his throat, and he crawled up and placed himself behind him, holding him through his panting, and then Sherlock reached behind him and grabbed his arse, and without a word, Mycroft knew what he wanted.

It had been a long time and Sherlock needed some preparation before he was ready to take Mycroft, but eventually he was moving in him, holding him, and he could see Sherlock getting hard again, and he smiled against his neck, his fingers wrapping around his brother's erection so he could stroke it in the rhythm of his increasingly deep thrusts before he came deep in his brother's body, feeling hot stickiness pulse over his hand while he was still shuddering through his orgasm.

He stayed in Sherlock, pulling him even closer to his body, and when his softening cock slipped out, Sherlock turned around in his grip.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” he mumbled against his sweaty throat, and Mycroft closed his eyes and kissed his forehead.

It wouldn’t be so easy forever. Challenges would pop up. Kidnappers had to be dealt with, rules had to be negotiated.

But they were together. He had been given a second chance. Well, actually it was yet another chance after Sherlock's many fallouts and rehabs and two times Victor Trevor. Mycroft had had so many chances to make it better, to contain himself, to keep his bad emotions under control, and he had fucked it up every single time.

But he wouldn’t do it again.

“I'll tell you if you overreact again, brother,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Yes. Do that, please. I promise to do my best.”

“I can't expect anything more. And you'll tell me when I'm being a horrible brat.”

“Deal.”

And Sherlock smiled and Mycroft couldn’t help but kissing the smile from his lips, his arms wrapped tightly around him.

It wouldn’t be easy but as Sherlock had said – it was worth it.

 

 

 


End file.
